


The Lady of Gifts

by MadameEngineer



Series: The Lady of Gifts [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Genderbending, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameEngineer/pseuds/MadameEngineer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king of Numenor  marched upon the lands of Mordor with pride in his heart, and glory as his goal. The dark forces had been all but eradicated, and little stood before him save the dark lord himself. But as the gates of Barad-dur open, the king is met with an all together different form. A spirit, with a plan to destroy the world of men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady of Gifts

Ash seemed to eternally waft down from the blackened skies of Mordor. It had been several weeks since Ar-Pharazon had come to this cursed land, and he doubted that he had seen the sun once. More often than not it was difficult to tell even whether it was day or night. There were no stars, nor moon. Just ash and the constant churning of fire ever erupting from the maw of Mount Doom.

It had been several years since that great battle at Gwathlo. Where the Dark Lord’s armies were finally crushed in no small thanks to the men of Numenor led by his father. It had ended the scourge that had fallen like a tidal wave upon the elves and free peoples of middle earth. But that terrible battle had not ended the threat. That which scurried away in fear from the might of men to crawl back into its hole.

An innumerable number of good men and Elves had paid for that victory, and continued to do so. But now it was time to end it. Pharazon looked on with pride. They were in a hell on earth, but they were so close now to the end. The Dark Lord’s might was broken, his lands breached, his armies scattered and now all that was left was one last push, before Barad-dur itself would be before them. And the self proclaimed “Lord of Men” would fall once and for all.

But first, the battle had to be won. Pharazon descended from his overlook and began making his way towards the main command tent. Setting up supply routes and alternating out battle weary soldiers were in truth the major hardship of this war. The noxious fumes from this barren land and lack of water were more deadly to the war effort than the countless hoards of orcs had proven to be.

But his force was still mighty, and had swept aside every strategy at the dark lords employ. They had won this war days ago, the enemy just didn’t know enough to stop fighting. Pharazon passed through the tent flaps and came upon his commanders. All men he had known for years, any one of whom he would trust with his life. And they were as equally disillusioned with their enemy.

“My lord.” Offered his highest Captain Erendil. Pharazon responded with a curt nod of acknowledgment.

“Any news from the front?”

“No my lord. The forces of Mordor have drawn back for now it seems.” He points to Barad-dur upon their battle map. “All forces are now making a defensive perimeter around that accursed tower.”

“They have little choice. There is nowhere to hide in this land.” Says one of the commanders by the name of Berethel. “Nothing but rocks and fire as far as the eye can see.”

“There is method.” Insisted Erendil. “We’ve kept an eye on the force coming from the pass of cirith Ungol. If they stay their pace, they will be upon us in a week’s time.”

“This will be over before then.” Announced Pharazon. “No tower will last a siege indefinitely. And if this dark lord is smart, he will surrender to us before we wipe them out.”

“And even if their reinforcements do arrive it will make little difference.” Grunted Berethel. Pharazon had to agree with that sentiment. So far he was less than impressed with this great enemy. True the hoard that was set upon middle earth during the last war was several times larger, but even so these orcs offered little in the way of resistance. His army had cut through them like wheat from the black gates to where they stood now, and had sustained minimal casualties.

He was confident in his soon to come victory, but he was not a fool. Nor was he ready to cast his men against those black walls just yet. The mob surrounding that tower was made now of the blood thirstiest orcs, largest trolls and most vile of the men of the east and Valar knew what else could wait in store. Perhaps it was the tales created a false image in his mind, but Pharazon couldn’t shake the feeling that the dark lord had several moves yet to play.

He left this opinion unvoiced however. They could do little more to prepare than what they were doing right now. Whatever tricks lay in store, he was confident his men would overcome it.

“Give the men a rest.” He commanded. “Third and Fourth battalions will continue setting up the barricades and manning them.” Both officers nodded in understanding. The roar of mount doom once more echoed through the very ground they stood on and Pharazon removed his helm and unbuckled his sword. “Tomorrow, we lay siege to Barad-Dur.”

\---

As so many times before, the clash of metal on metal rang throughout the battlefield. Pharazon swiftly parried and Easterling’s blade, and rounded his upon the man’s neck before he could retaliate.

He had been right. The hardest fight would be here. His forces had attacked at dawn and continued into mid afternoon. If neither side surrendered, this battle could last days into weeks. But every hour, the gates of the black tower were that much closer. And for the first time since this war began, Pharazon’s forces were the larger.

As he slashed and struck his way through opponent after opponent, he could not help but give more and more thought to that feeling in his gut. Was this Dark Lord so weak that he would not even face them? They were practically at his doorstep and he had yet to wade into battle alongside his own troops. There in was the fundamental difference between the two sides thought Pharazon as he severed an orc from his sword hand.

Yet still. This all seemed to easy. Unless Melkor himself arose from the fires surrounding the tower, the day was theirs. The orcs fought on of course, too simple minded to think of the larger picture beyond kill the man in front of you. But the men of the east were on their back legs. They could tell that all was lost, but there was nowhere to run, and in the heat of such conflict how could they throw down their spears?

Would that really be it? Fighting till the last drop of blood is spilt and not a single soldier was left standing? Then Pharazon thought of his own homeland if situations were reversed. He would fight to the death gladly. Yet still, it seemed pointless. This wasn’t a battle. It was a pantomime of one as all the actors played their roles. 

But that feeling of dread remained. And the Mordor hoard grew thinner and thinner, the moral of the numenour grew greater and greater as the bodies continued to pile one on top of the other making the ground slick with blackened blood.

Pharazon raised his shield to block a mace meant for his head, and knelt down stabbing below into the orcs leg. It fell with a snarl of pain which was swiftly ended by the king’s blade. And for the first time since dawn, there were no more orcs immediately surrounding him. 

He turned his gaze to the tower and saw that everything that the dark lord had left was scuttling to its gates for any hope of reprieve. A rally cry swelled through the ranks of men as formation was once again formed and a block was formed around the remaining forces. Pharazon moved to the head of the ranks to find Berethel standing at its head shouting some taunt at the cringing orcs.

Upon seeing his king, he ceased and spoke to the king in a jovial roar. “So think we’ll have to knock it down before they surrender?”

“They’re filth my friend. All they know is fear and pain, which we will continue to give them in ample supply.” Laughed the king.

Berethel gave a loud bellow, smashing his hammer against his chest. “Alright then you filthy mongrels. Who wants to die first?”

The Mordor army, now only maybe a few thousand strong didn’t wish to oblige. The king rested a hand on his comrades shoulder and shook his head. Berethel backed down, and king stepped forward.

Before him was about half a mile of the same barren black rock, and after that a bridge hewn from blackened steel hanging over a chasm leading to one of the many flows of lava from mount doom, and after that… Barad-Dur.

He stopped himself just short of arrow range, and indeed a few orcs took hopeful shots at the enemy commander only to have the shafts plant themselves into the earth a few yards in front of the king’s feet. Pharazon looked up to the tower and assumed. Before the battle had begun, before they had even reached Mordor, he had sent an envoy demanding that the Dark Lord abase himself at his feet. And now, looking upon the last bastion of evil in middle earth, he decided to make his demand once more.

“Lord of the ash Land! Come forth. Your forces are scattered, your empire is crumbled. There is nothing left but to face the justice of the Valar.”

His voice carried, and seemed to echo loud enough for both armies to hear clearly. “Come forth! Kneel in surrender, and nothing more need be lost.”

It was a half truth, one made in haste because the king couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord accepting it. Both armies crouch in silence, ready for the clash to resume once more until its end. Ash continued to fall, charring the men’s armor black. For a moment the two forces seem to be similar in more than bloody intent. And there is silence. Even the few remaining trolls seemed content to hold their last gasp before a final plunge.

And all at once, the heat that had caused them to suffer since entering this land, seemed to lessen, as the ash ceased to fall. The king felt an odd pulsing in his chest, as if a great drum was being beat below the earth, but didn’t make a sound.

The fallen ash began to swirl and twist through the air, a warm wind blowing though his army, towards the tower. And as if all of the same consciousness, the forces of Mordor all turned to their final stronghold, staring at its utmost peak.

Pharazon turns to his men raising his arm, giving them the signal to be ready. This was it. Whatever grand plan hung over them, whatever dark magic’s had been conjured against them were surely coming to a head now.

And in that moment, lord Ad Pharazon, king of the men of numenour knew he was ready for anything. One final cataclysm like in the songs of old in which evil would be cast out, and light would prevail. This was his song, his legend.

The wind faded, the heat once more blistered, and every single creature in the dark lords army stepped aside, forming a clear path from the gates of the tower.

Gates that began to open. Pharazon clutched his hand on the pommel of his sword. Finally, evil would show itself he thought with bated excitement.

The hot iron of the gates creaked and moaned as if they had not been opened in a thousand years, and a sliver of light appeared. Light coming from fire. As the gates opened wider, the light grew brighter and brighter until it was very nearly like looking upon the sun.

The king shielded his eyes, bracing himself for whatever wrath would fall upon him. But the light began to fade, enough to where he could look without any pain, and for a split moment he saw what looked like a great eye, wreathed in flame.

At the center of which stood a shadow. Tall and unnatural. Odd impossible angles seemed to twist in that darkness. And Pharazon realized that the figure wasn’t twisted, it was moving forward. It’s silhouette warped by the light of the flame.

The light continued to fade, the shadow encroaching ever closer. And when the fire died, the shadow melted away, the figure that stood before the king of men… was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Pharazon grip on his pommel slackened, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. A woman? How could this be? Surely this was some trick, some ploy to throw off his army.

But the figure that crossed the bridge continued, and the king himself found that without thinking, he was moving forward to greet her. Surely this was some emissary, some Easterling girl ensnared into service.

The king halted just at the end of the bridge, and watched the figure approach, still haven’t having taken a breath.

The woman walked with the grace the legends speak of elves, gliding across the ground as if it were but a cloud. The figures hair was as black as the night and cascaded down her back, falling to her waist. The eyes are what drew the most enraptured attention. Even from a distance he could see their fiery glow, feel their heat. They seemed to burn into him, bore into his being in a way like nothing he had ever experienced.

The woman came to a stop a few paces from the king, and she stared upon him with an odd expression, eyes never blinking. And when she spoke, it was as soft and lyrical as an autumn breeze. “IF I surrender myself to you, you will leave these lands? No more blood will be shed?”

“You?” was all that the king could utter in stunned disbelief.

The woman dipped her head in answer. She then turned to gaze up at the tower, and at all that was left of her forces.

The king did the same and saw the same bewildered and enthralled look on the face of his men. Even Berethel’s hammer was resting against the ground, as if he’d entirely forgotten his bloodlust.

When Pharazon turned, the woman was much closer. He had not heard her approach, and yet this did not alarm him. A strange heat began to enshroud him, like a child shifting in the womb, and it was clear that it was coming from the woman.

“Your word.” She spoke, in an almost pleading tone.

“My word?” it was said as a question, but the woman seemed to take it as a promise, and averted her gaze from the king and fixating it upon the ashen earth. In a sweeping, fluid moment, she fell down to both knees, a glint of gold flashing on her hand as she did so.

She reached up her arms and stretched out her palms for him. And when she spoke next, her soft voice boomed across the plains of Gorgoroth.

“I am the dark lord Sauron, and I surrender myself to your judgment Ar-Pharazon, king of men.”


End file.
